


Bad Dreams and Good Cocoa

by ggarbage235



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Everyone lives/Nobody dies, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oneshot, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), eddie's dead dad is mentioned, mature for language, richie isnt handling it well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggarbage235/pseuds/ggarbage235
Summary: Richie dreams of what he saw in the Deadlights, and Eddie helps to calm him down after.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 81





	Bad Dreams and Good Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so I wrote this for like no reason at about 3 am. It's super self-indulgent and fluffy so don't kill me.  
> I'm kinda concerned why I'm so attached to these two 40-year-old men, but its swagever. Like whatever but with swag.

The gentle glow of the Los Angeles skyline drips through the window of Richie and Eddie’s bedroom. The large sliding glass door that leads out to the balcony lets in quite a bit more light than Eddie was originally used to, but eventually, it grew on him. Their bed sits in the middle of the room, the headboard pressed against the wall, with an end table on each side. Less than a half a year ago these men didn’t even know about the other’s existence, and now here they are, sleeping in the same bed like it had always been that way. In some ways, it felt like it always had been that way, or it should have been anyway.

To the left lies Eddie, curled up in a ball under the comforter. He takes up as little space as possible, a learned trait from his previous marriage. He has slowly been un-learning it though, mostly snuggling up to Richie and finding himself awaking with a face full of his chest hair. Tonight, however, in his sleep he has rolled to face the opposite direction of his lover, resorting back to his old ways without knowing.

On the other side of the bed, closest to the window, lies Richie. He’s sprawled out and sweaty, twisting and turning and tangling himself in the sheets. His face is tensed, his brows furrowed, and his large hands are balled into fists.

Richie breathes in short, shallow breaths. His bangs have been pushed back, exposing the receding hairline that he tries so desperately to hide. He flips onto his side, facing the door.

This is what wakes Eddie. The bounce of the bed from the readjustment was all too familiar to him. His eyes flutter open as the feeling in his limbs begins to come back. He hears Richie quietly muttering something under his breath.

Thin, lengthy fingers reach out across the bed as Eddie flips over, “Rich, sweetie?”

He gets no response and rests his hand on top of Richie’s shoulder. He’s so tense, his entire body is clenched as if it’s preparing for something, just waiting for something bad to happen.

Eddie sits up, scooting in Richie’s direction. He looks over at his face. Tears fall silently down Richie’s cheeks, he’s clenching at the bedsheets, searching desperately for something to use as support.

“Hun,” Eddie rubs up and down on his partner’s shoulder, he can feel his breaths get caught in his throat, and debates waking him.

Before he can make the decision though, Richie’s eyes fly open. He bolts up into a sitting position and he cries out, his eyes wide.

Eddie jumps back, this isn’t the first time Richie has woken up from a nightmare, it happens quite often actually. He takes a deep breath and places a hand gently onto Richie’s back.

Richie’s eyes are open wide, looking off into the distance, into something that isn’t there. Eddie waves a hand in front of him, only to receive no response.

“Eddie, god,” Richie whimpers, he reaches out in front of him.

“Sweetheart I’m right here,” Eddie whispers, drawing closer to the other man and wrapping his arms around him.

“God... fuck,” Richie cups his hands, like he’s holding something that isn’t there, “Eds we did it, It’s dead.”

Eddie’s been given an explanation. He’s heard the story. He knows what happens, and what’s going to happen. Richie can’t hear him, he can’t feel him, he can’t see him. All he sees is what that damn clown showed him in the Deadlights.

“...Eddie?” Richie breathes.

It breaks Eddie’s heart. His voice cracks as he says it. Each night he says something slightly different. Sometimes he briefly explains how they killed It, sometimes he forgets It entirely and just wants to get the hell out. But every time. Every. Single. Time. He whispers Eddie’s name in a desperate, hopeless plea.

“Baby, I’m here,” Eddie says into his shoulderblade, “it’s okay.”

Richie’s head whips around. Not to look at Eddie though. He looks over his shoulder, and then back in front of him. He shakes his head, his gaze unwavering.

“No, no he’s okay!” Richie points off in front of him, looking back once more, “We have to help him, guys.”

Eddie feels it in his chest. Literally and figuratively. He can almost feel Richie’s hands on his chest as he bleeds out on the floor of that cave. He can almost see him kneeling over, panicking at the thought of having to watch his premonition come to life. He can almost hear him fumbling for words, telling him that he loves him, that he always had. Because he thought he’d never get the chance again.

Eddie runs his fingers over Richie’s chest, he can feel every labored breath, every pound of his heart.

“No, hey-” Richie begins to struggle, not against Eddie, but against some unseen force, “guys stop! We can still help him!”

Richie jerks his shoulders forward, his back arching as he tries to escape. Eddie has to hold on tighter to keep Richie in place. Richie’s fallen off the bed before, he’s hit his head on the headboard, and most frighteningly, he’s bashed his face onto the end table. That last one leaving a small, crescent-shaped scar on his forehead. No matter how much he doesn’t want to, Eddie has to hold him back.

Restaining someone that’s nearly 4 inches taller and 50 pounds heavier than oneself isn’t an easy task. Eddie has learned to just grab him by the middle and do his best to direct him away from the edges of the bed. Definitely not easy, but manageable. 

“Stop!” Richie shouts, shaking against Eddie, “What the fuck, Ben!”

Sometimes it's Ben, other times Bill, and on rare occasions, he’ll scream at Mike or Bev to help Eddie since they won’t let him. They never do. He tells Eddie, no matter what he says or does, the visions never change. No one listens to him, they don’t even look at Eddie, at Eddie’s body, they just get up and go like it didn’t even matter to them.

Richie’s arms shake as he throws them over himself like he’s reaching around someone. His whole body trembles. He hiccups and cries as he struggles, calling Eddie’s name over and over and over.

“Eds!” he wails, “Please, just leave me with him!”

Eddie’s own breath gets caught in his throat, he stares out in dismay. That’s a new one. The thought of Richie sitting in that cave with him as it crumbles down around them, it makes him want to vomit. The fact that Richie would rather be crushed under thousands of tons of debris than lose him is worrying, to say the least.

Richie’s struggling becomes more hopeless, there’s less drive behind it. He’s told Eddie before, this is the turning point. He’s lost sight of Eddie. He knows that he’s not going to be allowed to go back, he’ll never see him again. At least not until he wakes up.

But he doesn’t know that.

Richie thinks that this is it. That’s the last time he’ll ever see the love of his life. And he didn’t even get to tell him just how much he loves him.

Eddie holds Richie as he slowly gets quieter, his calls become weaker and he stops struggling. His eyes shut tight, and Eddie slowly releases so he can reposition himself in front of Richie. He hugs him tightly, supporting Richie and allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder.

Richie turns his head into Eddie’s neck. Eddie isn’t sure if he’s waking up yet or not, but acknowledging that there’s something to push his face into is a start.

Salty tears penetrate through Eddie’s shirt and wet his skin. Richie sobs violently into him, reaching his arms around the smaller man’s waist.

“Eds?” he softly calls out.

Eddie tenderly strokes his hair, smoothing it back, “I’m here honey, I’m here.”

Richie slides a hand up Eddie’s shirt. It lands on the large indent next to his lower spine. One finger traces the edge of it, over the ridged scar tissue, and the bumps where the doctors attempted to stitch him back together.

It’s real. It’s gross and vulgar, but it’s real. That’s all that matters to Richie. That scar is the only thing that clues him into the real world sometimes.

If the clown wanted to trick him, to make him think that everything was fine, only to snatch it away, things would be perfect. That jagged, disgusting scar isn’t perfect though.

Richie tells him every day how beautiful it is. Every time Eddie takes off his shirt he makes sure to remind him. It’s imperfect, but that’s what makes it real. That’s why he loves it so much.

Richie gasps for breath, one hand grasps at Eddie’s side as the other caresses his back in little circles. He leans into him further and it’s apparent that he’s awake.

Eddie strokes gently up and down Richie’s back. Down his spine and over the dimples in his back. He kisses the top of his head softly, his hair greasy and slick. Eddie would usually recoil and tell him to take a damn shower, but it’s understandable to be sweaty after having a vivid night terror.

“Honey,” Eddie continues to caress Richie as he speaks, “can you hear me?”

Eddie gets a nod in return, a subtle nod, but an acknowledgment nonetheless. The quiet sobbing continues, and Eddie is grateful that they have the top floor to themselves. If they had neighbors there would definitely be some issues with the consistent screaming each night.

They would move out soon anyway. The only reason Richie had an apartment in the first place was because he didn’t know what he’d do with the space in a house. An odd statement considering he had chosen the damn penthouse, but it is what it is.

Eddie gently fumbles with Richie’s hair, brushing back the few greys on the top of his head, “It’s alright sweetheart,” he shushes him, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Richie pushes his head into the crook of Eddie’s collarbone. He reaches around him and refuses to open his eyes. Wrapping Eddie into a hug, he attempts to regain control of his breathing.

The hitches in his breaths start to slow and sputter into a few pitiful hiccups and sobs. Eddie continues shushing him. He cups one of his hands over the back of Richie’s neck, stroking the short hairs that have been standing straight up.

“Eddie,” Richie mutters. His grasp on Eddie tightens a bit as he says it, like he’s checking if he’s still there.

“Yes, love?” Eddie lifts his head to look at his partner, whose face is still turned into him.

Richie grasps at Eddie’s shirt, which is actually one of his. It’s about 2 sizes too big for Eddie, and he adores it. Richie holds on tightly, breathing in and out slowly.

“Are you okay?” Richie manages to say. It comes out weak and forced, his voice hoarse from crying.

As soon as the words come out of Richie's mouth, Eddie's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. After waking up in the dark, screaming and crying, Richie's main concern is still Eddie. He understands why, Richie just watched him die. Even so, the man is crying in Eddie’s arms and is still worried about if he's okay.

With a small kiss onto Richie’s forehead, Eddie whispers, “Yes, love, I’m okay,” he rests the side of his head onto the other man’s, “I’m okay, I promise.”

It’s silent for a moment before Eddie feels a slight nod into his shoulder. They sit quietly for a while, the only sound coming from Richie’s occasional hiccup. Eddie simply plays with Richie’s hair as he continues to calm down. He always tells Eddie how much he likes it. When they’re sitting on the couch, his head resting in Eddie’s lap. When it feels like everything is right in the world, the warm California sun washing over their faces with Eddie’s fingers in his hair.

It’s comforting.

And that’s what he needs right now. He’ll never admit it, but Richie needs help from time to time. Sometimes he’ll wake up after Eddie’s already gone to work and freak out thinking that he’s dreamt of all the time they’ve been together, and the clown got what it wanted.

He’ll call Eddie frantically, asking if he’s okay. He’ll beg for Eddie to give him something that tells him it’s real, and that it’s all okay.

It becomes frustrating at some points, but Eddie always reminds himself that this is the man that he loves. This is the man that would do anything for him, the man that would die for him. He’s been through Hell and back nearly every night and the least that Eddie could do was comfort him. Tell him that everything would be alright and that It’s dead, not him.

Richie lifts his head, gently placing his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and looking into his eyes. Eddie knows he can’t see him. The man is legally blind without his glasses, and can barely tell where he is sometimes.

Richie stares at him, his eyes no longer empty. He isn’t looking off at something else that isn’t there, he’s looking at Eddie. Right at him, even if he can’t see him.

The blurry form of Eddie is actually a relief to him, he’s told Eddie many times that his nightmares happen in perfect clarity. Opening his eyes to see the fuzzy form of his lover in the gentle light of the city skyline was always so comforting. It’s another clue to the real world.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, looking up at Richie’s baby blues.

Tears cascade down Richie’s face. He smiles gently, the tips of his eyebrows pointing down, “Hey.”

Eddie leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to Richie’s lips. The scruff on both of their faces rubs together and is slightly uncomfortable, but neither notice. Eddie presses their foreheads together, looking deep into Richie’s eyes.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks.

Richie smiles, he’s barely able to make out Eddie’s big doe eyes in the dark. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, looking into the fuzzy form of Eddie’s face. Eddie furrows his brow at the lack of response. He cups Richie’s face in his hands, his cheeks are wet. Eddie places another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You’re okay, I’m okay,” Eddie returns his gaze to the other man, “We’re okay.”

Richie lets out a half-laugh, another tear rolls down his face. Eddie wipes it away with his thumb, pushing Richie’s cheek upward. Richie leans into Eddie’s hand, closing his eyes.

“Eds,” he speaks, his voice hoarse, “I saw you-”

“I know love,” Eddie cuts him off, “I know.”

Eddie places another kiss on his mouth, and another, and another. He’s not sure if it’s working, but Richie gives a gentle kiss back each time. Eddie used to think that kissing was something that only young lovers did because they were inexperienced and so enthralled with the idea of love. Now, he found himself doing similar things to those that he hated so much. He always wants to be near Richie, to touch him, to hold him. Every time they sit down on the couch, it’s right next to each other.

Something about this new, real experience in love is so odd to Eddie. But somehow it is so familiar. Like they’d been doing this for years, like those 27 years apart never happened.

It’s cheesy and he knows it.

Eddie continues sitting there, Richie’s face squished between his hands, and some deep, forgotten memory comes barreling up his throat and makes its way to his brain.

Reaching over Richie, Eddie goes to grab the pair of thick-rimmed glasses on the nightstand. He taps the screen of Richie’s phone, it lights up showing that it’s 2:57 am.

Richie closes his eyes as Eddie gently sets his glasses on his face, reopening them to see the clear picture of the scene.

Eddie’s hair is ruffled and his eyes are tired, small circles under his eyes are telling enough. Warm gentle light trickles in the room and onto his face.

“Come with me hun,” Eddie takes Richie’s hand and slides off the bed.

It takes Richie a moment to gain his balance, something Eddie should’ve accounted for. He nearly falls onto Eddie and proceeds to profusely apologize for it afterward.

Eddie walks out of their bedroom and into the kitchen, Richie trailing not far behind. His hand clutches Eddie’s like it’s the only thing that’s keeping him tethered to reality. Eddie directs him to the counter which he, in turn, leans on for support.

Eddie crouches down to open one of the lower cabinets, he reaches in and comes back out with a large saucepan. He sets it gently on the counter. Next, he heads for their pantry. The large doors swing open and he places a hand on his chin as he scans it over.

“Do we...” he pauses, and his eyes go wide as he spots what he was looking for, “we do!”

Eddie pulls out a package of chocolate chips from the back of the middle shelf. He checks the back and smiles before tossing them onto the counter as well.

“Eds, what the hell-” Richie is swiftly shushed.

Eddie opens the fridge, the light penetrates Richie’s retinas, “I know what’ll make you feel better,” he grabs the jug of milk before closing the refrigerator.

Richie rubs the bridge of his nose, he isn’t fully sure where he is. He knows he’s in his kitchen, but feels like that’s too good to be true. He scans the entire room for something that could be off, some slip up in the illusion. He can’t find anything that would tell him that this isn’t real. Nothing uncanny or off, just him, Eddie, and the soft light of the city around them.

He turns back around to see Eddie turning on the stove, he’s gotten out a few other things.

Richie stumbles forward, he reaches out for Eddie. He wraps his arms around Eddie’s waist and ducks his head into the crook of his neck. Slender fingers come up to meet his face as he holds on tightly.

“What the hell are you doing?” Richie mumbles into Eddie’s neck.

Eddie laughs, “I’m making hot cocoa,” he leans his head onto Richie’s, dropping his hand and turning on the stove.

Looking up, Richie gives a skeptical glare at the counter in front of them, “Last I checked, you didn’t use a pan to make hot chocolate,” he shoots Eddie a loving smile.

“Well you my dear,” Eddie retorts as he pours milk into the saucepan, “Just haven’t had the real thing yet.”

Letting out a small chuckle, Richie kisses Eddie’s cheek, “I don’t need-”

Eddie shushes him, “It’s not just for you dumbass,” he smiles sweetly.

The pan sizzles a bit as Eddie drops quite a bit of chocolate chips into it. They begin slowly melting on the hot metal. Richie watches as Eddie moves like he’s done this before. Eddie looks over at him, a thin, small grin plastered across his face.

“So, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie coos into his lover’s ear, “where’d you learn to do this?”

Eddie shakes his head at the nickname, but a mellow smile still rests on his lips. He’s quiet for a moment, stirring the shallow pan.

“My dad.”

Richie is taken aback by the response. Eddie hardly talks about his dad, he didn’t when they were kids and not even now that they are adults. Richie just assumed that he didn’t remember much about him, since he died when Eddie was only 5. He never tries to prod, he doesn’t want to hurt Eddie, even if that isn’t the intention.

A melancholy gleam takes over Eddie’s eyes. He looks down at the saucepan. Warm, milky chocolate melts in front of him, the room is filled with the sweet, sticky scent of it.

“When I was little, before he-” Eddie’s mouth folds into a thin, flat line, “before he died-”

Richie bumps Eddie’s head with his own. He can’t relate. Richie has never lost a parent, both of his are living their retirement dreams in Florida. Eddie has lost both. While Wentworth and Maggie Tozier made it very clear when they met Eddie for the 2nd time that he could always rely on them, it just isn’t the same. Richie knows it isn’t the same.

Eddie stands there, reminiscing in his old forgotten memories, “Whenever I had a nightmare, I’d go out into the living room where he’d sleep,” he chuckles, “God the irony-”

A laugh escapes Richie’s throat. The fact that Eddie himself spent almost every night on the couch in his previous marriage is somewhat eerie. It’s terrifyingly similar to how he remembered his father, always sleeping on his chair in the living room, 70’s TV static being the only thing that lit the room.

He remembers creeping out of his room in search of comfort, he needed his dad. Eddie’s mom would swaddle him and smother him, and that wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t what he needed. 4-year-old Eddie just wanted his dad to tell him that everything was okay.

The pitter-patter of his tiny feet on the linoleum floor is ingrained in Eddie’s brain. He’d sneak through the hallway and round the corner to see his dad’s big, brown leather chair. Frank Kasprak would always be there, one arm slung off the edge in his sleep.

Eddie would tug on his arm, and his snoring father would jolt awake to see him. Eddie’s eyes wide with terror, and his fathers gentle and warm.

Looking in the mirror now, Eddie can see bits of his father coming through, his big, brown doe eyes being the main culprit.

His father would pick him up, knowing what’s wrong without even asking, and set him on the counter while he made them both a mug of hot cocoa. More often than not, Eddie would fall asleep in his father’s arms in his chair, only to wake up back in his bed.

“Eds,” Richie’s quiet voice shakes him from his daydream, “Do you... remember, what he was like?”

Eddie cocks his head, “A little bit,” he thinks for a moment, Frank Kasprak was always described as a caring man and that’s how Eddie remembers him. But at that age, he thought his mother was loving and caring as well.

“He’d always make me hot cocoa when I was sad,” Eddie chuckles, “well when my mom wasn’t around that is.”

A gentle hand greets Eddie’s chest, Richie makes circles around his sternum. Eddie can hardly feel it, but it feels oddly comforting. He isn’t sure if it’s for his sake or if Richie is still coming to grips with reality. Either way, the soft movement of his thumb over the scar tissue is a pleasant sensation.

Eddie closes his eyes, “That’s all I remember of him,” he adds a dash of vanilla extract without really looking, “One day we were drinking cocoa in the kitchen, and the next I was watching him get lowered into the ground.”

That last sentence knocks the wind out of Richie. Whether mentioning death so soon after one of his episodes was a good idea or not didn’t cross Eddie’s mind until after it was said. It’s morbid, for sure, but it’s the truth.

Reaching up into a cabinet above their heads, Eddie grabs 2 mugs. He makes sure to grab Richie’s favorite one. It’s a plain white mug with the letters ICK printed across it in thick black lettering. It has a handle that’s shaped like a D. Richie can’t remember where he got it, but he absolutely adores it.

Richie gasps, “My dick mug,” he smiles like the ray of fucking sunshine that he is as Eddie pours the steaming cocoa into both mugs.

That big, toothy smile makes Eddie melt like those chocolate chips in the pan. He’d do anything if he could see that smile every second of every day. He’ll never let Richie know that though, too much blackmail potential.

“Thank you, darling,” Richie kisses Eddie’s cheek as he reaches for the drink.

Eddie quickly, but softly slaps his hand away, “Hey!” he reaches over to the counter, grabbing a can of whipped cream, “You’re forgetting the most important part.”

Eyes widening, Richie watches as Eddie creates a near-perfect whipped cream topping onto both drinks. He then opens his mouth in Eddie’s direction, hoping to receive a mouthful.

“Rich, I swear to god,” Eddie says, there’s no hostility in his tone. He reluctantly sprays a glob of it into Richie’s mouth.

“Thank you, love,” Richie says, his mouth full of whipped cream. He goes in to kiss Eddie again.

Pushing back, Eddie chuckles, “No, no, no,” he lifts his chin to avoid the other pair of lips, “You swallow that shit before you kiss me you fucking creatin.”

Richie sighs. He swallows, opens his mouth to show that he isn’t fibbing, and quickly receives a tender kiss on his lips.

Grabbing "the dick mug", Eddie turns around to face his partner. Hardly any space separates them, so Eddie leans back slightly so he doesn't spill hot cocoa all over Richie.

"Here," Eddie states, offering him the mug.

Richie takes it, sliding 3 of his fingers into the D shaped handle, leaving his pinky to roam free. He looks down and smells the hot cocoa before taking a sip.

"How is it?" Eddie smiles.

Richie ponders his response for a moment, smacking his lips together like he's a food critic or something. He looks down at his mug once more before speaking in a thick British accent.

"Well," he places a hand on his chin, "it has slight undertones of-"

"Oh for fucks sake," Eddie laughs, placing his hands on Richie’s hips.

Richie lets out a half-laugh, setting his mug down on the counter behind Eddie. He kisses the other man gingerly, holding him by the waist. Richie allows himself to put most of his weight on Eddie, who moves his hands from Richie’s hips to wrap them around him.

"It's okay honey," Eddie tilts his head into Richie's collarbone, "It’s okay."

Black hair mussed and spiky, Richie nods. A hint of fear is buried behind his eyes, he still can't tell if this is all real or not.

Eddie lifts his head up, pressing another kiss to Richie's chin. He reaches around himself and redirects Richie's hand to the small crater just left of his spine. Richie's fingers make their usual rounds across the scar. He doesn't even process that he's doing it at this point, it's just natural.

Running his hands down Richie’s sides, Eddie shushes him once more. Richie wasn't saying anything beforehand, but he strangely finds the noise comforting.

Richie sighs. He reaches around Eddie and grabs both mugs, handing one to his partner. Eddie takes his with one hand and puts the other on Richie's cheek.

"Are you okay?" Eddie asks, his big brown eyes looking up at Richie.

A laugh escapes Richie’s mouth, this is the purest form of love he could ever witness. 3 am on a weekday, this man got up to make him hot cocoa because he had a damn nightmare. That's the most anyone has ever done for him, the most someone has cared about him like that. Eddie's just so perfect, it's too good to be true. There is no way that this was his, that he could have this. He looks down at Eddie, his face lit up by the Los Angeles lights. His hair, messy and unruly with bedhead. The thin, white scar on his cheek being illuminated so gracefully. It's all so imperfect, and that's what makes it real.

"Yeah," Richie lifts his mug, clinking it gently onto Eddie’s, "I'm okay."

**Author's Note:**

> if yall like this i might post more of my stupid fics lmao


End file.
